


No Regrets

by AceSailorKoshkaRayn



Category: Indiana Jones Series
Genre: Gay Character, Greece, M/M, Modern Lingo, Slums, Sooooooooooo Not Historically Accurate, Treasure Hunting, not historically accurate, not-quite-as-straight-as-he-thought!Indiana, oc-freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 21:36:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4074688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceSailorKoshkaRayn/pseuds/AceSailorKoshkaRayn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, that one time Henry Jones Junior fucked a guy, and really doesn’t regret as much as he probably should. (Dainty women are kind of ruined for him now.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Regrets

"Duck!”  
The man swung down automatically, not even questioning the order, and two small hands met firmly with his lower back, launching a lithe body over him. He looked up just in time to see him take out two of the men after him with a neat twisting kick, settling down on his bare feet like he weighed naught more than air.  
“Y’alright?” the boy asked, glancing back over his shoulder. He had slightly curling brown hair -dusty from being unwashed and from the dirt of the city- mostly tied back with a leather cord, and intelligent, smiling green eyes.  
“Fine,” he muttered, slightly bitterly, rubbing the blood off his chin.  
“What’d those guys want with you, anyway?” the boy asked, crouching to rifle through the pockets of the unconscious men. He pocketed several bills and some change, checking the clips of their four total guns with practiced ease. “Awful lotta firepower for a single guy.”  
“I just have something they want,” the man waved a hand, crouching beside the boy. “But…thanks for that, kid-”  
“Don’t call me ‘kid’ and we’ll call it even,” he said, glancing over. “I’m seventeen.”  
“Kid to me, but alright,” he shrugged. “What should I call you, then?”  
“Rye,” he said with a shrug, pulling the ammunition from the guns and tucking it into his deep pockets. “You?”  
“Jones,” he smirked, tipping back his fedora. “Indiana Jones.”  
Rye arched an eyebrow, a small smirk on his lips. “Like the state?”  
“Sure,” he shrugged, standing. “Anyway, thanks again, kid. Ah, Rye,” he bowed in apology, taking a step back. “See you around.”  
“Bye,” Rye waved without looking up, digging through the unconscious male’s other pockets. “Don’t get shot, Indiana.”  
“No promises, kid,” Jones waved over his shoulder without looking back.

“Awful young to be picking pockets, don’t you think?” Jones asked tightly, glowering down at the innocent-eyed street urchin.  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the blonde boy grinned, hands clasped tightly behind his back.  
“Give it here,” Jones snatched around him for the brass medallion, and the boy ducked down and away, shoving it into the waistband of his pants.  
“Give what where?” he asked, holding out his hands. The glint of someone else’s gold could be seen under his tongue. “I’m afraid I really have no idea what you mean!” He laughed, spun on his heel, and took of running.  
“You- you thief!” Jones yelled, shaking a fist and running after the boy. “Get the fuck back here before I wring your scrawny neck!”  
Laughing, the blonde turned a corner and skipped away, vanishing into the crowds and side-streets with the ease only years of practice could give you.  
A few moments later, Jones scanning down an alley, he heard a whistle.  
“Oi, Jonsey!”  
He looked up, catching a glint of sunlight on brass, and his hands shot up to snatch the medallion from the air. “Rye?”  
“Seeing you again so soon!” the brunette laughed, dangling upside-down by his knees from an open window. “Figured you might want this back.”  
“Thanks again,” Jones grinned, slinging the cord around his neck and taking comfort in the way it settled close to his heart. “That’s twice now you’ve saved my ass, you know.”  
“That important to you, huh?” Rye shuffled around until his spine was against the sill, crossing his bone-thin arms.  
“You have no idea,” Jones tucked his hands into his pockets, smirking faintly at the boy. “I feel like I really owe you something, now.”  
“Oh?” Rye arched an eyebrow. “Like what?”  
“I was thinking a good meal,” Jones shrugged, like he really didn’t care. “You’re walking skin and bones, figure you could use one.”  
Rye sat up straight so fast he nearly fell out the window. “Food? Like, really, real food? What kind of food?”  
“Eh,” Jones shrugged. “Pizza, burgers, pasta. I’m not picky. What would you prefer?” He did owe the kid at least _that_ much. Without him, he’d be either six feet under or royally fucked by now.  
“Oh, it all sounds good,” Rye pursed his lips, swinging his legs out and planting his bare feet on the stone wall. “Ugh, too good to be true. What’s the catch?”  
“No catch,” Jones shrugged. “I mean, I don’t _have_ to feed you, really, I probably shouldn’t -I can barely afford rent on my teacher’s salary, but…”  
“N-! Ah, stay, food,” Rye twisted around, gripped the windowsill, and slid out farther. His toes hooked in the minute grooves between the stones, and he carefully -yet swiftly- lowered himself down, dropping to the dirt road with bent knees.  
Jones whistled admiringly, and Rye flapped a hand at him.  
“I used to be that flexible,” Jones mused, tapping his lower lip thoughtfully.  
Rye gave him an arch look. “I’ll bet you still are, if you had to be.”  
“Eh,” Jones shrugged innocently, hands still in his pockets. “C’mon, I owe you a pizza.”  
Grinning, Rye skipped after the professor, already chattering excitedly away.

“You must have a lot of people who don’t like you, huh?” Rye mused, crouching under the table, still clutching tight to his bright white plate of pizza and munching steadily.  
“So it would seem,” Jones said flatly, rolling his eyes. He adjusted his hat, slipping his pistol from his hip holster, and took careful aim.  
“Unlucky,” Rye slurred around a mouthful of pizza, jamming the last bites if crust in, and promptly stood and slammed the table over.  
Jones yanked him back down by the wrist, and several bullets could be heard hitting the tabletop. “What the fuck are you thinking, you stupid brat? You’re gonna get yourself killed!”  
“Ah, y’see, I’ve done this a few times,” Rye told him with a wag of his finger, smirking faintly. “At this same restaurant, even. Except, usually it’s cause I’m not a paying customer, _but_ ,” he shrugged uncaringly, popping up to chuck his plate at the shooter.  
There was a curse, and several more bullets flying.  
Jones peeked over the top of the table, pulling off a few shots of his own.  
After another beat, Rye nodded with a thoughtful grin and popped up again. “Ha!” he laughed, pointing at the man jamming more bullets into his gun as fast as he could. “Okay, done,” he snatched Jones’ wrist and dashed off; as soon as they were out the door the man slammed the revolver into place and squeezed off a shot.  
“Just how much of an adrenalin junkie _are_ you?” Jones asked incredulously, holding his hat to his head as he dashed headlong down the streets just behind the lithe boy.  
“Eh,” he wobbled a hand from side-to-side as he ran, signifying ‘a little.’ Rye shot down a narrow side-street, ducking under lines of washing, and slipped through the miniscule crack between a house and a fence.  
After a beat of hesitation -just where the fuck were they going, anyway?- Jones shook himself firmly and shoved himself into the miniscule gap.

“You attract danger, doncha Jones?” Rye shook his head, tossing a stick onto the fire.  
“It…it’s not like I _mean_ to,” his nose wrinkled and he shook his head, raking his fingers through his hair. “I’d avoid it if I could.”  
“I think everyone would,” a black-haired boy said, swirling his spoon through the thin gruel in his bowl.  
“’Cept for Rye,” a girl said, whistling faintly through the gap where her front teeth had once been. “He alluz runs headlong; how else’d he a-found Doctah Jones, here?”  
The boy laughed lightly, blushing faintly. “Well,” he said, “I wazzah plannin’ in swiping his pockets,” he shrugged innocently. “But then I seen him bein’ ‘pocketed by else’s, so…” Rye laughed.  
Jones arched an eyebrow at the boy, but shrugged it off as none of his business, glancing around. The sky was starting to get dark. Standing, he dusted himself off and asked, “you know anywhere cheap I can stay the night at?”  
Rye arched an eyebrow at him, looking up but still somehow giving the impression he was looking down on the man. “What? Our ‘comodations not good ‘nuff fer the good Doctah?” he asked airily, leaning back on his palms.  
“Well, I figured-”  
“Bah,” Rye waved a hand. “Stay here; anywhere Tops’d you’d be wormfeed in a haffanour, anaway.”  
“You say that like I don’t already know that,” the man said, settling back down and drawing his knees up to his chest.

A young boy sidled up next to him, brown eyes wide in the light of the fire. He was maybe ten, so not extremely young, but young enough to make the almost-thirty teacher feel his age.  
“Hey,” Jones worked up a smile for the boy, though he suspected it fell somewhat flat. “What’s your name, kid?”  
“Erik,” he said softly, looking down at his bare feet for a moment before his gaze swung up to meet Jones’ again. “How come you speak so good? Didja learn it in school?”  
“I…yeah,” Jones nodded shallowly, looking him over. He remembered being that age…  
“How old ah y’s, Doctah?” Erik asked, leaning forward earnestly.  
“Twenty-eight,” he said, and the boy whistled in admiration.  
“Wow!” Erik grinned faintly. “Y’s is th’oldest perron I evah talk-ked to!”  
Jones swallowed thickly, eyebrows raising despite himself. “Is that so? Why is that?”  
“Weyahl,” Erik shrugged, looking around. “Perrons don’t last too long ‘round here. City bites’m up ‘n spits’m out, really… Even if y’s is the rich folk, they live short an’ hard. Summa’m come down here’n pays us fer a little bit, fer a bit a fun.”  
“…Fun?” Jones’ eyebrows lowered. “What sort of…’fun?’”  
Erik pulled back, blinking at him in something like surprise. “Whaddya mean, what sorta fun? What sorta fun else do rich perrons come down to us poordirt for? The misters allus want summin’ soft t’ stick their prick in. Don’ you?”  
“Well, yes, I enjoy sex just as much as the next guy, but _children_?” Jones asked incredulously, scanning the gathering of children with new eyes. “I knew that happened -fuck, I knew that happened _here_ , but I never…”  
“…Nevah thought y’d see the result with y’wn eyes?” Erik asked softly, resting his chin on his knees. “Yeah…lotsa people think that. None of us ‘n here ah like that, not ‘nymore. Rye won’ lettus. No more whores.”  
“…Huh,” Jones watched the boy with curling brown hair wave his hands as he told a bedtime story to the youngest of the children. “Even Rye was? A whore, I mean.”  
“Oh, yeah,” Erik chuckled faintly, and Jones was somewhat worried.  
Who laughs at that?  
“Rye was wun’a’dah best, akshully. Knew allus how t’get top dollah from his misters,” Erik hummed, blinking tiredly. “He’d allus get repeat cust’mers, get the pre’yest pressunts, and stuff like. Got a real watch once, pre’yest thing y’evah did see. Sold it when Mai-Ella got sick,” he gestured to the blonde toddler asleep in a pile of ratty blankets. “Mai-Ella allus gets sick, s’she allus gets blankets.”  
“You don’t mind?” Jones asked curiously, and immediately wondered if that was the wrong thing to ask when he was gifted with a supremely dirty look.  
“Why’d I mind?” Erik asked, arching an eyebrow. “It’s Mai-Ella. She’s my sister; if she’s sick, a’course she’ll get the blankets. Duh.”  
“Of…course,” Jones smiled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry I asked.”  
Erik hummed, shrugged, and shuffled slowly to his feet. “Well, nuhnight, Doctah Jones. Sleep swell.”  
“Uh, yeah, you…too,” Jones leaned against the warm brick wall behind him, crossing his arms and lowering the brim of his hat.  
Half an hour later, it was pushed back again, and Rye grinned down at him. “Well-met my family, eh, Doctor?”  
“They’re…interesting, I’ll admit,” Jones shuffled upright, setting his hat on his knee and running his hands through his thick cocoa hair. “All of you are, really. And that accent of yours -can’t make heads or tails of it. One moment you sound like an Oxford boy, the next like a common street rat.”  
Rye’s smile grew a little wistful, and he settled down beside the man, looking around his small settlement of children. “Well, y’know, I am both. Was both.” He shrugged and tugged the leather cord out of his hair, carefully extracting what looked like an ivory comb from his pocket.  
Jones stared at it for a long moment, before he shook himself and glanced back up to find Rye smirking at him. He cleared his throat awkwardly and idly kicked his feet, biting his lip. “A…gift? From one of your…um.”  
“Customers?” Rye’s smirk grew wider, but he shook his head. “No, it was my mother’s, actually. And my grandmother’s, and my older sister’s. It was supposed to be sold, way back when, but it, uh,” he shrugged, “went mysteriously missing. Easily worth a small fortune, but the sentimental value is far greater than any monetary.” He began threading the comb through his curls with an almost ritualistic sort of reverence, humming under his breath.  
“You…you knew your parents?” Jones asked incredulously, eyes wide.  
“Of course,” Rye darted a look at him, and rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t always a street rat, obviously. I was actually born in a well-off family. But then Father died, and Mother broke us with her alcoholism, drug addictions, and wild parties. Sister got pregnant and ran off with the kitchen maid, so I was sold out as a cobbler’s servant boy. Interesting job, actually had a good bit of fun with the old man -it’s where I developed my hatred of shoes, ironically enough- but then he died, the cobbler’s son decided that all I was, was a useless waste of space after I refused to have sex with him -nasty little cretin he was, round as a ball and bald as one too, smelled like fish- and threw me out.  
“That was, mm, seven years ago?” Rye pursed his lips, cocking his head to the side. “Yeah, seven. I was ten at the time. And no, don’t give me that look,” he flapped a hand at Jones. “It happens more often than you’d like to think, I know. Also, if it makes you feel any better, I didn’t start whoring until I was fourteen.”  
“…No, that actually does not make me feel better,” Jones sighed, head hanging between his knees. “Good _Lord_ , kid. Er, Rye. Fourteen?”  
Rye shrugged, staring at the fire before them, still threading the comb through his hair. “It’s actually pretty late. Erik,” he nodded to the boy curled up on the dirty blankets near the other children, but closer to the ever-sick Mai-Ella. “He was whoring since before he could remember. We have these…talks, I guess, when one of us has a nightmare and we discuss our dreams -me and the kid or two. The only nightmare he’s ever told us is his first memory -being slammed against a concrete wall and having a dick shoved down his throat.”  
Jones shivered convulsively, arms wrapping tighter around himself. “That’s horrible,” he said thickly, chin tucked down.  
“There are…worse ones,” Rye admitted, looking away. He quietly replaced the comb in his pocket, patting it quietly before standing. “C’mon, Doctor. You can have my bed for the night; I doubt I’ll sleeping.”  
“But I-” Jones blinked at the boy, who merely smiled and shook his head, holding out his hand to help the man to his feet. “I don’t want to impose…”  
“Don’t worry about it,” Rye pulled him up, leading him over to a thin pile of hay layered with a blanket, a thin jacket bunched up at one end.  
“I don’t want to take your bed,” Jones said firmly.  
Rye arched an eyebrow. “Indiana, trust me, you are not taking my bed. I am letting you borrow it, in the interests of you not dying tomorrow. Allow me this.”  
Jones settled down on the pile, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What do you care what happens to me tomorrow?”  
“I saved your ass three times yesterday,” Rye crossed his arms, leaning back on the balls of his feet. “Figured I might as well make it a habit, while you’re in town.”  
Jones grunted, crossing his arms.  
“Sleep, idiot,” Rye sighed almost fondly, pushing him down with a slender foot flat on Jones’ chest. “The sky will still be here when you wake up, I promise.”  
“Is that something you tell the children?” Jones asked sardonically, rolling his eyes.  
Rye’s smile was faint, barely there. “Every night, Indy. Every god damn night…”  
~/\~  
“Told you so,” were Rye’s first words the next morning to Jones, pushing a warm bowl of whatever-they-had-last-night into his hands. “Sky’s still here. Did you sleep adequately, Indiana?”  
“…Adequately,” Jones blinked sleepily a few times, rubbing one hand over both eyes. “ _Fuck_ , but I am sore…”  
“Yeah, that can happen,” Rye nodded agreeably, pressing the rough amalgamation of a spoon into Jones’ hand. “Eat, Doctor. You’ll need your strength if we’re to ever find your lost treasure.”  
Jones paused, glancing up at the boy and arching an eyebrow. “We?”  
“We,” Rye smirked. “Don’t you remember? We agreed last night -don’t you remember? I’m going to keep your ass out of the fire.”  
“But…don’t you have…kids?” Jones glanced around, where other children were stirring, emerging from piles of hay and dirty cloth.  
Rye arched an eyebrow. “Indiana, these kids survived for years without _any_ help -what makes you think they can’t manage a day without me?”  
“Dependency…?” Jones suggested with an awkward smile, pushing his spoon through the pale sludge. “What even is this?”  
“CrossPot,” a young girl said, her dirty red hair cut severely short on one side, falling a little long on the other. “Is vhatever can find, throw in.” Her accent was rough, eastern European, maybe northern.  
Jones blinked at her. “Were are _you_ from?”  
She cocked her head to the side, regarding him curiously. “Russia.”  
“We call her Anastasia,” Rye said, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “More a point of irony, really. Staz remembers all-too-well where she came from.”  
She grunted, standing smoothly. She hitched her too-loose trousers back up, quickly covering a long white scar that arced down her back to disappear under the grimy cloth. “Is best,” she muttered, stacking shafts of lumber into the crook of her arm. “Past is…all. All most have. With no past, no future possible.”  
“…That is quite possibly some of the most poetic, secular advice I have ever received,” Jones pursed his lips thoughtfully, swallowing a spoonful of the mush. “Beautiful.”  
Anastasia flashed him a grim smile, her oddly white teeth bright in the early, just-after-dawn light. “Thank.”

“I still don’t think you should be here with me,” Jones remarked, peering out of the mouth of the alley into the busy market street. “It’s dangerous; you could get killed.”  
Rye snorted, scrambling monkey-like straight up the vertical face of the building to their right. “Indy, I could get killed every day _anyway_. Adding a gun to the mix might just make the process a tad bit less painful.”  
“Awful cynical for a kid,” Jones remarked, tugging his hat down to hide his eyes as he stepped out onto the street.  
Chuckling delightedly, Rye shook his head and slid lightly to the ground. He wandered a few paces behind Jones, chin lifted high.  
“You’re not very inconspicuous,” Jones murmured, dropping back, arms folded across his chest.  
“Ah, but I blend in here better than you do, for sure,” Rye smirked, brushing a hand down the front of his ragged clothing. “You look like a tourist. Though, that way, you would be much more likely to be able to rent a horse, hm.”  
“A horse, huh?” Jones arched an eyebrow at the boy. “I was thinking more along the lines of a car?”  
“Eh,” Rye shrugged, gaze darting like an emerald laser from person to person, never stopping for too long. “If you like. Seems awful blatant for a man attempting to remain under the radar~”  
“Fuck you, I am tired of horses,” Jones wrinkled his nose in utter distaste, rolling his shoulders back. “I came all the way to this damnable city on horseback, I sure as fuck am not leaving that way.”  
Rye laughed delightedly, white teeth gleaming in the early morning sun. “Either way, we’ll need provisions. Which one would you prefer to handle? I know where to get a car dirt cheap.”  
“You’re not stealing a car,” Jones said seriously, eyes narrowing dangerously.  
Sighing and rolling his eyes, Rye cocked out one hip and arched an eyebrow. He toyed with the collar of his ragged shirt, drawing attention to the long line of his markable neck, and Jones found himself swallowing thickly.  
“…Um,” the professor said eloquently, blinking a few times.  
Rye dipped his middle finger into the notch between his collarbones, before trailing it up his throat and across his lower lip. “Don’t worry about me, Indy,” he purred, voice suddenly several degrees lower and more sultry. “No one said anything about stealing. Merely…getting a better deal.”  
Jones stared at him for several moments, before shaking his head and wrapping an arm around Rye’s shoulders, jamming his head against his sternum. “I think I would rather you steal a car,” he said faintly, walking forward.  
Laughing, Rye allowed himself to be tugged along. “Alright, alright, Indiana. Christ, one would think you’ve never had a pretty fairy flirt with you before.”  
“I must admit that it’s a bit of a new experience,” Jones said, glancing around and allowing Rye to straighten. However, he kept a hand firm on the boy’s shoulder.  
“Really?” Rye glanced back at him in surprise, stopping to allow the man to purchase a wicker basket. “Damn; with a physique like yours, I would have expected they’d be throwing themselves at you.”  
“Where I’m from, homosexuality isn’t looked so kindly upon,” Jones said flatly, passing the basket over to Rye.  
“What makes you think it is here?” Rye arched an eyebrow. “Greece is just as prejudiced as any other nation, Doctor Jones. Just because they’ve practiced sodomy for centuries does not mean acceptance. You must remember that most places refuse to even admit to prostitution,” the boy reminded him, wandering ahead and sorting through a display of fruit.  
“Oldest profession in the world,” Jones hummed, standing with his back to Rye to watch the street.  
“Aye,” the boy pursed his lips, reaching back.  
Jones stiffened as a firm palm met his ass, sliding sideways, before sighing gustily as the hand found his wallet and tugged it out. “I hope you’re more subtle when you actually pick pockets. That was…” he hummed, shaking his head.  
“Of course I am,” Rye laughed, digging out a couple of coins and passing them over. “You would never even know I was there. I’ll have to show you sometime, it’s really quite a feat.”  
“I’ll have to take your word for that,” Jones shook his head. “When was the last time you took a bath, actually? I’m curious.”  
“When was the last time it rained,” Rye rolled his eyes, sliding the wallet back into Jones’ pocket with a much more subtle touch. “Bathing isn’t really my priority in this life, though I do love a good hot bath just as much as the next person.”  
“Isn’t Greece famous for their bathhouses?” Jones followed Rye as he wandered to the next stall, looking over the round loaves of thick bread.  
“Yes,” Rye nodded, passing over more coins for three loaves of the dense bread. “I love Germanic bread; its one of the best things that came out of the country, don’t you agree?”  
Jones grunted noncommittally, shrugging.  
“What type of cheese do you like?”

“I do believe you have more issues than I previously thought you did,” Rye pursed his lips, frowning at the white linen shirt and comfortable khaki short-trousers laying on the hotel bed. “When the fuck did you have time to even get these?”  
“I can be sneaky when I want to be,” Jones smirked, sidling up behind the teenager and leaning his chin on the top of his head. “Your hair is a darker color when it’s clean.”  
Rye ran a self-conscious hand through his mahogany locks, biting his lip. “They’ll get lighter when they dry all the way,” he admitted, pressing one fingertip lightly to Jones’ jugular. A fluffy white towel was wrapped around his waist, and he gripped it like a lifeline.  
“You know,” Jones pursed his lips as he took the hint and backed off a step. “By this time in my travels, I’ll have fucked the leading lady at least once.”  
“Good thing I’m not the leading lady, then, huh,” Rye rolled his eyes. Flexing his fingers, he reached for the clothes, allowing his grip on the towel to break.  
“I gotta admit,” Jones hummed, turning away to go get dressed himself. “This whole ‘attracted to a guy’ thing is kinda new for me. How does one even flirt with…with, ah, someone of that…persuasion?”  
Rye’s hand spasmed and he nearly strangled himself on the collar of his shirt. “That…depends,” he said weakly, shaking his head after a deep breath, settling the hem against his slender collarbones.  
“On what?” Jones slid on his trousers, and there was the klink of his belt.  
“Well the person, obviously,” Rye tucked his shirt into his trousers, then reached for his leather belt. “Some prefer to be treated like ladies, others only want a quick roll in the hay. I personally prefer a more direct approach -though I think that might have to do with my profession for a while than anything else.”  
Jones hummed consideringly. “I’ll have to keep that in mind…”  
“Later, we have work to do,” Rye shrugged on the light tan leather jerkin over his shirt, flattening it against the tops of his thighs.  
Nose wrinkling, Jones sighed, but nodded. “Fine, later. Where’s that medallion?” He patted his chest suddenly, eyes going wide.  
Rye held it up between two fingers, swinging it back and forth. “Told you I could be subtle.”  
Jones arched an eyebrow at him, reaching out.  
With a light laugh, the brunette dropped it into the palm of his hand and wandered to the window. “We’re going west,” he remarked, the bright mid-afternoon sun throwing him just into shadow.  
“You sure about that?” Jones asked, stepping up to the window to better examine the gold medallion. It wasn’t that big -maybe the size of a child’s palm- and rough around the edges. The picture wasn’t an even depth, showing that it had been stamped, and had a bright sun along the right edge. “It looks like we should go east.”  
Rye rolled his eyes. “Idiot,” he said, and smoothly took the ancient coin. Looping the leather strap around his neck, he said, “It’s tied the same way as it always has been, right?”  
“Obviously,” Jones crossed his arms and leaned against the windowsill.  
“Don’t take that tone with me,” Rye waved an absent hand. “Alright, so you’re looking at it like this, right?” he held it up twisted at a somewhat odd angle, the knot on top, the sun to the right.  
Jones arched an eyebrow. “Obviously.”  
Rolling his eyes, Rye shifted his grip to where he wasn’t almost throttling himself with the string -the knot on the bottom and the sun to the left. “Which way makes more sense if you’re terrified of ever taking this thing off, but still have to use it as a map?”  
Jones frowned, stepping closer and leaning over Rye’s shoulder. “Gotta admit, that does make a lot more sense.”  
“Even street rats can be useful,” Rye smirked, slipping the cord over his neck and passing it back to the professor. “Remember that, Indy.”  
“Yeah,” Jones nodded in agreement, slipping the cord around his neck and simultaneously pulling a familiar ivory comb from his back pocket. “Here,” he said, pressing it against Rye’s chest.  
The brunette blinked at it a few times, before breaking out into a smile. “You’re too kind, Doctor Jones. I’d almost forgotten about this.”  
“I have my moments,” Jones pressed a lingering kiss to Rye’s throat before backing off. “We’d best get going before someone finds out we’re here -we’ve got a few hours of travel ahead of us.”  
“Ah…yeah…” Rye shook his head and practically skipped after the man. “Lead the way, Indiana.”  
~/\~  
“How are your feet not _killing_ you?” Jones groaned, laboriously pulling himself up the nearly 45-degree slope behind his jackrabbit companion. “I swear to god, these rocks are baking!”  
“I haven’t worn shoes in years!” Rye laughed, perched precariously on the top of a rock some good distance ahead. “Fuck, I pity ye poor humans with your insistence on these odd foot-coverings,” he grinned.  
“Sounds like a quote,” Jones sucked in a breath, tugging his hat off to swipe at the sweat soaking his brow.  
“From an old fairie story I tell the children,” Rye admitted with a smirk. “ _The Cobbler and the Ryebird_.”  
Jones arched an eyebrow. “Ryebird? Really?”  
“The best stories you will ever tell are your own,” Rye shrugged, clambering down off the rock to drop beside Jones. “They may not be the truth, but they will be the best. Probably.”  
Taking a moment to stretch, Jones peered around the rock for the dark, westward-facing hole carved in the base of the cliff. “We’ve probably only have about a half hour left at this point.”  
“You, maybe, but I bet I could be there in ten minutes,” Rye adjusted the handles of the wicker basket against his shoulders, feeling something shift and settle into position.  
“That is because you are part goat,” Jones wrinkled his nose, replacing his hat and setting off again. “I want you to stick closer, Rye -I never trust when it’s this quiet. For all we know they could be lurking just inside the cave to bash our heads in.”  
“Ooh, morbid, yum,” Rye rolled his eyes but acquiesced to the suggestion, tailing along beside Jones. “What exactly are we looking for, again?”  
“Well-” a glint of silver in the distance made Jones duck, gripping the back of Rye’s shirt and sending him sprawling in the dust.  
The brunette bit back a pained yelp, eyes scrunching briefly in pain, but shook his head and shuffled to his knees. “What is it?” he hissed, gaze darting around.  
“I hope you didn’t intend to return that car, Doctor Jones!” a shout came, sounding somewhat wispy in the wind.  
“Shit,” Rye scowled, rubbing his fingertips rhythmically over his collarbone. “What do we do? Make a run for the cave?”  
“Unless you want to stay here?” Jones asked sardonically, arching an eyebrow.  
Rye’s eyebrows lowered. “Hey, don’t give me that tone, without me you’d already be dead.”  
Jones sighed, slumping. “Yes, Rye, we are going to run to the cave.”  
“Fabulous!” Rye’s face split into a somewhat maniacal grin and he shed the nearly empty whicker basket. Something inside broke when he dropped it.  
Jones quickly shed his own pack, shuffling upright to peer over the top of the rock. “They’re getting closer,” he warned.  
Rye gripped Jones’ wrist and took off in a pell-mell dash up the steep slope.  
Nearly skidding out multiple times, they both made it to the relative safety of the cave without getting shot.  
Rye took aim with Jones’ second pistol, dropping to his knees to give the professor room to fire also.  
“Is your life always this adventurous?” Rye asked absently, holding the gun with rock steady hands and picking off targets one after another.  
“Eh,” Jones shrugged, balancing his other pistol with both hands and peering around the cave mouth. “I’m a professor of archaeology; this is a bit exciting, even for me.”  
“Ah, yes, of course,” Rye rolled his eyes and handed Jones back his gun as the last fell. “I think there will be more soon.”  
“There always are,” Jones sighed, shaking his head, and tipped his hat back so he could see better. “Better hurry, then; we don’t have all day.”  
Rye hummed in agreement, turning in a slow circle. “What are we looking for, again?”  
“Another one of these,” Jones tapped the medallion through his shirt. “Next step in the puzzle.”  
“Oh?” Rye arched an eyebrow, but nodded. “Fabulous. Does it say where to start looking?”  
“…No,” Jones shook his head, turning the brass circle between his fingers thoughtfully.  
“Are you sure-” Rye blinked at him a few times.  
“…What?” Jones asked, dropping the medallion; it thumped heavily against his breastbone.  
“Gimme that for a sec,” Rye leaped forward, hands fastening around the brass. He yanked, and the cord snapped.  
“Hey-!” Jones yelped, jerking towards him.  
Rye tossed the medallion up just as Jones tackled him to the ground -and they both watched it vanish into the darkness above them.  
“Ha!” Rye laughed delightedly, grinning foolishly, when it failed to clang against the rooftop or come back down.  
“…What the fuck?” Jones rolled onto his back, staring up. “Is there another chamber up there?”  
“Obviously,” Rye shoved him off and popped to his feet, already looking around for a way to climb up. “It’s ingenious, really. No one ever thinks to look up!”  
“…Aye,” Jones clambered to his feet, dusting himself off.  
Rye turned on him again, leaping up and wrapping his legs around the man’s narrow hips.  
“ _Holy_ shit,” Jones pin wheeled his arms for a long moment, struggling to remain balanced while Rye clambered up his body. “For fuck’s sake, kid, what the hell? I’m not a tree!”  
“I can climb you like one,” Rye smirked, fingertips ghosting under Jones’ jaw, before his feet found the man’s broad shoulders and he stood.  
“Not fair,” Jones groused, hands automatically fasting around bare, slender ankles.  
“That I can climb you, or that you can be climbed?” Rye asked, voice sounding hollow and echo-y. “Holy shit, Indiana, there’s a lot of stuff up here!”  
Jones glanced up, squinting at the circle of light around Rye’s torso. “What sort of stuff?”  
“Well, a metric shit-ton of pottery, for one,” Rye squirmed, trying to get farther up. “Like those, uh, Grecian urns, whatever they’re called.”  
“They’re-” Jones began.  
Rye suddenly squealed like an overexcited schoolgirl, making Jones wince. “Wow, it’s a skull! Ooh, no, a whole skeleton! Hello, Mister Skeleton! How are you today?”  
“Rye, you’re talking to a dead guy,” Jones sighed, shaking his head.  
“Sometimes they talk back, and everyone loves a nice friendly hello,” Rye squirmed again, trying to climb farther up. “Gimme a boost, Indiana!”  
“Hold your horses, Rye, fuck,” Indiana grunted, hooking his hands under the boy’s feet and pushing him up.  
Rye scrambled and kicked and cursed, but finally gave an exclamation of delight and yanked himself up. “Got it!”  
“I see that,” Jones said blandly, shaking out his hand where it had been struck. “What else do you see?” he asked, staring around for a way to climb up himself.  
“Uh…” there was a scuffling sound, and a delighted laugh, before Rye’s sweat-streaked face poked down from the ceiling near the wall. “There’s a ladder, but I don’t think it’s useable anymore.”  
“…Probably not,” Jones pressed a hand to his chest in an attempt to calm his thundering heart. “Fuck, Rye, you startled me!”  
“Well, if I’ve managed one thing in my life,” Rye smirked, winking in an incredibly exaggerated fashion before he vanished once more.  
“Rude…” Indiana mumbled, crossing his arms and glaring out the cave archway. “Find the medallion,” he called up. “And don’t touch anything! We don’t know what’s poisonous or not.”  
Immediately after his statement came a great shattering sound, like dozens of plates breaking at once.  
“…Oops.”  
“Rye,” Jones growled, darting a quick look up. “What was that?”  
“I’m not dead!” he yelled back. “Just…bleeding a little, I’ll be fine! Here, catch!”  
Indiana turned just in time to catch a heavy, creaking leather bag in the chest. He went down with a _whumph_ of scattering air, landing hard on his back. Moaning his displeasure, he beat ineffectual fists against the ground in an effort to suck in much-needed oxygen.  
Rye peered down again. There was a gash just over his left eye that was steadily leaking blood, and his whole person seemed to be covered in a fine powder. “Found your medallion,” he said, letting a hand drop down to reveal the tarnished brass disk. “Also I took all the gold I could find. That was the funny crashing sound -its surprisingly difficult to rip teeth out of jaws that are several centuries old, would you believe that?”  
“Why did you take their teeth,” Jones groaned, sitting up slowly. “That’s a whole new level of disrespect.”  
“Well, they’re dead, it’s not like they’ll actually, you know, need them.” Rye hummed, squirming around until his feet dangled out of the hole. Dropping down silently, knees bent, he gave a quick look around. “Don’t you think they’ve been far too quiet for far too long?”  
“Probably,” Jones kicked the heavy bag aside, giving it a dirty look, and pulled himself up the wall. “I think you bruised my ribs, Rye. That hurt like a bitch.”  
“Sorry,” Rye shrugged, not sounding sorry at all as he hefted the pack onto his shoulders. The leather creaked and strained, but held. “Delightfully well-made…”  
“Are you a connoisseur of ancient packs, then?” Jones asked scathingly, eyebrows drawn together as he rubbed at his chest.  
Rye rolled his eyes, tugging Jones forward with a firm hand wrapped in the lapel of his jacket. “I did tell you to catch,” he breathed.  
“I’m not a street rat, I need more warning,” Jones murmured, staring intently into emerald green eyes. “My reflexes are nowhere near as good as yours.”  
“Practice, darling,” Rye’s smirk grew, and he yanked Jones down into a searing kiss.  
Jones sucked in a startled breath through his nose, but kept it going, one hand sliding down a thin side to grip an angular hip.  
Both were experienced, that much was obvious, though Rye was much more adventurous, slipping his fingers into the backs of Jones’ trousers and drawing his nails up.  
Humming with an odd contentedness, Jones bit playfully on Rye’s lower lip, making the teen chuckle delightedly and tug playfully on his tongue.  
Pulling back with a final lascivious lick at the inside of Jones’ teeth, Rye said softly, “We should get. Bad guys with guns are coming after us, remember? Plus we don’t have a car.”  
Jones hummed, licking his lips, before nodding and removing his hands from Rye’s body and rolling his shoulders. “The medallion?”  
Rye passed it over from his back pocket, already heading towards the mouth of the cave. “Told you we should have gone with horses.”  
“Duly noted,” Jones nodded, giving the medallion a cursory examination before tucking it into the breast pocket of his innermost shirt and buttoning the flap closed.  
Crouching low to the ground, despite his heavy pack, Rye led the way down to their previous cover of the large rock. Both Jones’ bag and the wicker basket remained, much to the teenager’s relief.  
“Here,” Rye passed both canteens, the one remaining apple, and the loaf and a half of bread into Jones’ hands, dropping his leather satchel into the wicker basket and hoisting it onto his shoulders. “I know a way we can cut through the fields and get back to town sooner.”  
“…Why didn’t we take that way to begin with?” Jones asked guardedly, eyeing the teenager.  
“Farmers shoot people,” Rye shrugged. “Right now, I assume we’re more worried about time than about danger, aye?”  
“Yes, most assuredly,” Jones nodded emphatically, tucking the meager supplied away and hiking his pack higher on his shoulders.  
~/\~  
Rye blinked at the familiar blonde kid that ran full-tilt into him, bounced off, and ran away again. “Boo?”  
“You know that kid?” Jones asked, sidling up beside the brunette.  
“Yeah, one of mine,” Rye frowned, dipping his fingers into the waistband of his pants and palming a small square of blood red cloth. He swallowed, tucked the cloth back away, and grabbed Jones’ wrist. “We need to hide, and fast,” he hissed, gaze darting around, shoving them both into an alleyway.  
“What, why?” Jones blinked at him in confusion. “What was all that about?”  
“Just…shut up and give me your hat,” Rye said tightly, ripping the tie out of his hair and combing his fingers through the sweaty strands. He snatched Jones’ hat, ignoring his muffled cry of outrage, and slammed it at a rakish angle on his own head. He tucked the man’s whip up out of sight under his shirt and mussed his chocolate hair. After applying a layer of his own blood to pink his lips, he smirked up at him. “How’d’I look?” he purred, voice just this side of velvet-smooth.  
Jones tugged on his collar, swallowing thickly. “Well,” he said weakly. “You certainly look…different. How’d you do that?”  
“Practice, dove, practice,” Rye turned, shoulders slumped in a way that projected a heavy bust, and sauntered out of the alley with a distinct sort of feminine swagger in his step. “C’mon, Captain,” he called, lifting a hand in an imperious gesture. “We’ve got a date tonight, remember, honey?”  
“Aye, how could I forget?” Jones hummed, trailing after him with his hands in his pockets.

“They’re getting closer,” Rye murmured, leaning Jones against the wall, both palms flat to his chest. “I don’t think they believe we are who we say we are.”  
“Well, we’re not, so,” Jones felt the young man shiver against him, breath catching. “What do you suggest?”  
“I’m gonna disappear for a bit,” he licked his lips, smudging away the reddish tone. “See if I can find out how many there are. You try not to get killed and just keep weaving. I’ll find you when I can, before dark. Think you can manage that?”  
“I’ve done this once or twice,” Jones rolled his eyes, darting forward and swiping his tongue over Rye’s lower lip. “Believe it or not -I’m a college professor, not an imbecile.”  
“I know, darling,” Rye smirked, nipping Jones’ upper lip and pulling away. He tipped the stolen hat, dropped it on Jones’ head, and spun away, quickly vanishing into the crowd. “See you~”  
Jones raked a hand through his messy hair, shaking his head, and looked around. “Directions directions, too many directions…”  
Around the corner, Rye smirked, winding his curls into a tight ponytail, and vanished into the shadows.

“Doctor Jones!”  
The man cursed, coughing into his drink. He spun, glass tumbler falling to the counter, to see three men in the doorway of the bar.  
“Where is the medallion?”  
“Ah, well, see,” he laughed, hefted the cup, and hucked it across the room.  
It shattered against one’s face, making him curse and stumble back. The other two charged in, both drawing guns.  
The man behind the counter growled, eyes narrowing dangerously. “No guns,” he snarled in rough English.  
The other two men laughed.  
“No _guns_ ,” the man repeated, drawing what looked like a metal stirring stick from a glass of clear vodka and throwing it with unerring accuracy.  
Jones blinked as the stick embedded itself in one man’s eye, turning to stare at the bartender. “Fuck, man. You’re really serious about that policy, aren’t you?”  
The deceptively skinny man glared, fingering another thin spike.  
“Uh, yeah, okay,” Jones nodded, backing slowly away. “Universal policy, I getcha. Leaving now.”  
He grunted, crossing his arms, and jammed one of the picks back between his teeth. “Good. Rye will meet you outside.”  
“He- he will?” Jones paused, blinking a few times.  
The man growled again.  
“Shit, going!” Jones lifted his hands and walked from the bar.  
“Doctor Jones,” the man said, as one of his partner’s yanked the pick from his eye and tossed it to the ground. “You have something we need.”  
“No, I really don’t think I do,” Jones shook his head, already raising his hands defensively.

“And where the fuck gave _you_ been?” Jones sucked in a ragged breath, glaring at the brunette teenager as he sauntered through the crowd.  
“Well, at least I know where they came from,” Rye crouched beside the man, waving a plain brown notebook teasingly over his head. “It’s more than what you got.”  
Jones groaned, rolling onto his stomach before crawling laboriously to his feet. “So, what were you doing?”  
“Tracking your followers, obviously,” Rye tucked the notebook into the back waistband of his trousers, dusting off the older man. “I found you a cheap, out of the way hotel with a good silence policy.”  
“Thanks,” Jones shook his head, raking calloused fingers through his hair. “Show me the way, I guess.”  
“Such trust,” Rye smiled faintly, turning on his heel.  
“You’re limping,” Jones remarked, carefully eyeing the slighter man’s gait. “What happened?”  
“Took a boot to the ass,” Rye grinned ruefully over his shoulder, smoothing a palm against his lower back. “Won’t hurt for long; I’ve had worse done to me.”  
“Suppose you have,” Jones nodded sagely, following him between buildings and through winding Grecian side-streets. “What’s the name if this place?”  
“Doesn’t have one,” Rye ducked under a curtain of laundry. “It’s Sister Aphrodite’s house.”  
“…Aphrodite,” Jones arched an eyebrow at him.  
“Yes, it’s a whorehouse,” Rye waved a hand at him, peering around a corner. “Good house, though. Not an official place, of course. Sister just charges cheap rent and it’s in a pretty convenient area for callgirls.”  
“Ah.”  
“We’re here,” Rye rapped his knuckles against the open archway of an old stone building. “Sister Aphrodite! I’m back!”  
After a beat, a whip-thin woman with a severe haircut and even more severe expression stepped out of the building. “Welcome back,” she said, her features loosening from stern to placid. “How long are you to stay for?”  
“Just a night, Sister,” Rye rubbed a fingertip against his collarbone, and she nodded, her calculating gaze turning on Jones.  
Jones blinked at her.  
“He’s a good one, don’t worry,” Rye reached back for Jones, wrapping a firm hand around his wrist. “He’s careful.”  
Sister Aphrodite nodded slowly, stepping back. “En-suite 1 is free. You know where it is.”  
“Thanks,” Rye smiled and nodded, leading him inside.  
“You’re right, she really doesn’t ask a lot of questions,” Jones glanced back at the woman, who merely nodded at him and settled back into her place just inside the door.  
“She’s smart,” Rye pushed open the door farthest in the back on the second floor, glancing around, and nodded quickly. “She gets to trust her housers. And if one of them breaks that trust, it takes a good bit for them to earn it back. Bath is through here,” he jerked his head to the curtained arch to their left.  
“You going first, or me?” Jones dropped his pack by the large, freshly tidied bed and started shedding his clothing right there.  
“Not enough water for two separate baths,” Rye shook his head, laying the leather jerkin on the wooden bench near the bathroom archway. “You take the first shower, and I’ll put our clothes in a tub to soak.”  
“Alright,” Jones nodded, pinning the curtain back to allow steam to escape.  
Rye rolled his eyes, fetching the bucket from the bath floor and filling it with water from the tap. “Don’t drown yourself,” he said over his shoulder, dropping his shirt into the bucket, quickly followed by his shorts.  
Jones hummed, kicking over his shirt and pants, before stepping under the warm drizzle of the fountain-like showerhead. “Water smells funny,” he remarked, rubbing his hands through his hair.  
“Natural hot spring,” Rye sloshed the clothes in the bucket, wrinkling his nose at the muddy color the water quickly turned. He upended the wooden pail, squeezing the clothes to rid them of more liquid, before nudging it back over to Jones’ feet. “Fill that,” he ordered, crouching on his heels and propping his chin up on his fist.  
“So the water’s just pouring in from a pool?” Jones twisted to peer over his shoulder at the teen. “Above us? How does that work?”  
“Well, actually, the spring is near the top of the hill,” Rye gestured up with his free hand. “There are four residential levels, and each one has two rooms with en suite baths. Level three is right near the source, so it’s damn hot, and level zero -that is, the ground floor- is pretty far away, so it’s rather more cold. I prefer this -level two. Sister Aphrodite prefers to boil herself alive, so she’s the only one really willing to use the top floor.”  
“This is a pretty good temperature,” Jones hummed, closing his eyes and ducking his face under the spray. “Kind of reminds me of a waterfall.”  
“That would be the point, you know,” Rye stood and stretched, snagging a bar of soap off the counter and wandering over to Jones. He hooked the bucket out of the way with his foot, touching a light palm to the man’s back. “Natural, relaxing. Such and such.”  
Jones hummed, head bowing forward. “A little to the left, would you-? Ah, perfect…” he sighed contentedly, shoulders slipping to a more relaxed position. “Have you done this before?”  
“You forget my earlier profession,” Rye purred, leaning forward, fingertips tracing gentle patterns down Jones’ chest. “I know…all sorts of things that I can do to you. Have you squirming, writhing in pleasure. No matter how…” he chuckled, mouthing at the firm line of Jones’ throat. “Straight you think you are.”  
“Which seems to be not as straight as I thought,” Jones hummed, turning and pinning Rye to the wall with two hands firm on angular hips. “You’re a very teasing little fairy, aren’t you.”  
Rye’s smirk only grew. “You have no idea, Indiana.” He leaned forward, licking a long stripe up the man’s throat, nipping his ear. “Let’s see what we can do, hm?”  
“Sounds brilliant,” Jones smirked, sucking in a breathless little gasp when Rye arched against him, nails digging into his back.  
~/\~  
“I think you’ve ruined women for me,” Jones mumbled against the smooth line of Rye’s back, one hand wrapped firmly around his slender waist.  
“Such a shame,” Rye hummed, stretching languidly. “Ooh, I missed that ache…” He wriggled, edging out from under Jones’ arm. “Get up, lazy bones, time for breakfast. Your treat.”  
“…Fine,” Jones sighed, throwing an arm over his eyes dramatically, before stretching and grunting his way into an upright position. “Where do you wanna eat at?”  
“Anywhere’s fine,” Rye fingered his shirt, hung up on one of the wooden pegs in the bathroom to dry. “Just as long as there’s food, and lots of it.”  
“Yeah, alright,” Jones wandered after him, digging in the front pocket of his shirt for the now-clean medallion. He held it up by the thin chain that poked through one end, letting it spin in circles.  
“Looks like you‘re going east,” Rye remarked, already tucking his shirt into his trousers.  
“How so,” Jones passed over the medallion, reaching for his pants.  
“Going off the same theory you were last time,” Rye slipped the small chain over his wrist, gripped it over the hole, and held it up.  
What could have been mistaken for a valley at the other angle was unmistakably a mountain, with a spangled sun decorating the lower right side. He flipped it over, and a bare foot poised mid-stride met his gaze. Stylistic Apollonian wings hovered near the ankle.  
“…Hm,” Jones peered over the top of his head, hands on his shoulders. “That one could be a bit more tricky.”  
“Nah,” Rye smiled, passing back the medal. “Let’s go have a quick talk with Sister Aphrodite -there’s this person that I’m thinking of, but I can’t remember his name. But he has something to do with marathons…”

“You sure I can’t convince you to come with me?” Jones almost pouted, gripping tight to Rye’s wrist and refusing to let go.  
“Yeah,” the brunette patted his hand kindly, gently prying his fingers off. “I’ve got my own path to follow. You do too, and they part ways for now. Who knows, though -maybe we’ll meet again in the future.”  
“You sound optimistic,” Jones sighed, clenching and unclenching his hands.  
“I’m good at that,” Rye fanned a hand over Jones’ cheek, tugging him down for a wet kiss. “Go fight your baddies, honey, they ain’t gonna wait forever.”  
“Sadly,” Jones rolled his eyes, tapping his forehead lightly against Rye’s. “Alright, see you around, then. Don’t die.”  
“You either, Indy,” Rye laughed, tweaked Jones’ nose, and turned, almost immediately melting into the shadows.  
“…Damn,” Jones shook his head in admiration, tucked his hands into his pockets, and whistled merrily on his way.

~/\~  
THIRTY YEARS LATER  
“…What the fuck.”  
“Pleasure to see you too, Indiana,” the man with curling chocolate hair nodded deferentially, a small smile playing on his lips. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it.”  
“That…that could be said,” Jones’ smile grew, and he forewent the offered hand and pulled the man into a hug. “Damn, Rye, it’s been, what, ten years? I almost thought you were dead!”  
“Oh, I don’t die so easily, you should know that, Indy,” Rye smirked, pressing chaste kisses to both of the man’s cheeks.  
“Hey, Dad-” the young man with curly, deep brown hair paused in the doorway of the man’s office. “Um. Hi. I didn’t know you were expecting anyone…?”  
“Oh, he wasn’t, dearie,” Rye smiled flirtatiously, and the young man flamed brilliant red. “I’m just an old…friend.”  
“…Ah,” the young man said eloquently, eyes going a little bit wider. He darted a look at the older professor.  
“Oh, Henry, this is Rye…?” Jones darted a look at the younger man.  
“Rye Ystré,” he smiled, wrapping both hands firmly around the handle of his cane and bowing shallowly. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”  
“Same…here,” Henry nodded weakly, hands clenching around the stack of papers in his hands. “Um. Should I…go…?”  
“Nah, stay, make friends,” Jones beckoned him closer. “Rye, this is Henry Jones, the third.”  
Rye nodded politely, a small smile playing on his lips. “Tell me, Henry, how much do you know of your father’s…adventures?”  
The young man shuddered, hands clenching tight. “Yeah…”  
Rye laughed delightedly, eyes shining with a sudden mirth. “Has Indy ever told you about how he came across that bite scar on his wrist?”  
Jones winced, absently tugging his sleeve down to cover the mark. “Fuck…of course that one…”  
Henry instantly perked up, blinking wide eyes. “No, he hasn’t. I always ask, though…”  
“Ooh, sweetheart, you’re gonna _love_ this…”


End file.
